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Bell frowned. “Don’t deflect with your literary quotes. You know that won’t cut it with me. You’re paying me to listen, which means you need to talk. Let’s start with how things are going with Margaret.”

Holmes sighed. “Status quo.”

“Meaning no progress?”

“We barely speak. We barely touch.”

“So, no intimacy?”

Holmes shook his head. “Margaret seems to have a new obsession.”

Bell raised her eyebrows. “Another man?”

“Pots and pans. She’s been experimenting with French cuisine.”

The therapist settled back in her chair. “Well, that could be significant. Is she a good cook?”

“A talented novice. But improving.” Marple was making at least one new dish every day, sometimes two. As a member of the in-house tasting committee, Holmes had gained five pounds.

“Did you ever consider that she might be using food as a way to get through to you?”

“You mean, the way to a man’s heart?” Holmes scoffed. “Margaret would never be that obvious.”

“It might be subconscious on her part,” said Bell. “Maybe she’s trying to bridge the gap in her own way.”

Holmes shifted on the sofa, suddenly distracted by the subtle scent of Bell’s perfume. “Are you wearing Chanel?”

Bell seemed taken aback. She blinked twice. “I am.” She flushed slightly. “It was a gift.”

“From another patient? Or a lover?”

Bell ignored the question. “Does the scent bother you?”

Holmes shook his head. “I’m just ultrasensitive.”

“Of course,” said Bell. “Your hyperosmia. Scent can be a powerful trigger. Maybe it reminds you of someone. Another time or place?”

“No,” said Holmes. “It’s just you. Nobody else.”

Bell brushed her fingers against her neck. A nervous gesture. “I can wash it off if it’s a distraction.”

“It’s not,” said Holmes. A small untruth.

After a few minutes, the conversation settled into a familiar rhythm: Bell probing; Holmes withholding, then slowly yielding. The two of them had been through a lot together. During the worst pain-racked, sweat-drenched nights of his heroin withdrawal, Holmes had probably revealed more to Dr. Bell than to anybody else in his life. Except maybe Margaret Marple.

Of course, there were things Holmes hadn’t told Bell. There were things he hadn’t told anybody.

But Bell knew all about his mother’s own addiction and feelings of worthlessness, and about his father’s intellectual brilliance and harsh emotional distance. She knew about young Brendan’s escape into the world of mysteries and crimes, and his powerful—sometimes dangerous—identification with his namesake.

Slowly the conversation wound around to Holmes’s occasional panic attacks, and his ongoing temptation to score drugs—to bliss out, dissolve the stress. “But I fight it,” he said. “I know the next fix could kill me.”

“Good,” said Bell. “It’s healthy that you realize that. We’ve come too far to lose you that way.”

Holmes spotted a telltale shift in Bell’s posture. Then she tucked her auburn hair behind her ears. He turned to glance at the wall clock behind the sofa. As usual, he couldn’t believe how fast the fifty minutes had slipped by.

“Our time is almost up,” he said, turning back.

“That’s my line,” said Bell, smiling. She stood up and smoothed her navy skirt. “Before you go,” she said, “I think there’s one more thing we should discuss.”